


Something to Hold On To

by dizzzylu



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Cuddling and Snuggling, M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-09
Updated: 2011-05-09
Packaged: 2017-10-19 04:48:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/197083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dizzzylu/pseuds/dizzzylu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first title I could come up with was "Five times Jensen and Misha Cuddled (and One Time They Meant It)." Yes, that makes no sense. And yet? It pretty much explains the entire thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something to Hold On To

**Author's Note:**

> So, I have this friend (we’ll call her cautionzombies, just to keep things nice and anonymous), who’s been stressing over grad school stuff and has just been working herself to the bone in general. I also have these other friends (who will remain anonymous because I love them like that), who said, "I need some comfort fic." I agreed, and so this is what happened. Thanks to annundriel and obstinatrix for holding my hand and telling me it’s ok to be self-indulgent and schmoopy.

  
**\- 05 -**   


Vancouver is a gorgeous place to have to live and work nine months out of the year, but there’s one tiny catch that nobody really knows about. It rains. A lot. So much so, it often has to be worked with instead of around or they’d never get an episode done. Especially since so much shooting is also done at night. Put simply, Supernatural isn’t an easy show to shoot, and Vancouver’s weather certainly doesn’t help.

Usually, the cast and crew are prepared for rain; armed with umbrellas, thick rain coats, and portable tents and heaters. But the location they’re at right now is about two hours away from the lot. The lot where said umbrellas and thick rain coats and portable tents and heaters are. Left behind because it wasn’t supposed to rain.

Really, _somebody_ should’ve known better.

So, it’s ass o’clock in the morning, and everybody’s wet and cold and grouchy, and there doesn’t seem to be any end in sight. It’s just a fine mist, so there’s no _real_ reason to pack it all in, since they’re already there, but it’s night, the end of October. And there’s a bit of a wind blowing. It’s miserable, basically. And the very worst part is, Jared’s all snuggly warm at home, completely clueless as to what he’s been saved from. Of course.

While the crew is adjusting the meager lighting, Jensen and Misha are huddled together, plotting the various ways they’re going to punish Jared for not being there, even though it’s absolutely not his fault ‘Sam’ isn’t required for this particular scene.

“Program his satellite radio favorites to foreign talk radio stations.”

“Rack up a couple hundred dollars worth of sex chat charges on his phone.”

“Fill his backyard with chickens.”

“Fill his backyard with _roosters._ ”

“Shaving cream every flat surface of his trailer.”

“Male strip-o-gram.”

“ _Several_ male strip-o-grams.”

The ideas get more and more outlandish the longer they have to wait. The pauses in between longer too, to accommodate the shivering and teeth chattering. When Misha looks over at the lighting crew, they’re huddled in a group, discussing things with the director, and don’t look anywhere near ready to shoot. So, he turns back to Jensen, ready to propose a new idea and he can’t help but notice the blue tinge to Jensen’s lips, the increasing intensity of his shivering. “Can take the man out of Texas, but can’t take Texas out of the man?” he teases.

Jensen looks confused, licking his lips as he tries to put two and two together. Misha’s eyebrows flicker in concern, and he grabs Jensen’s ice cold hands and tucks them underneath his arms, making them meet behind his back. Misha slips his own hands underneath the layers of Jensen’s costume, keeping one shirt between his hands and Jensen’s back to rub soothingly up and down Jensen’s spine. “Jesus, Jensen. You’re just a huge block of ice.”

Jensen might’ve chuckled, Misha can’t tell what with the chattering teeth and Jensen’s face tucked into the dip of Misha’s shoulder. “’M okay,” he stutters out, his hands automatically slipping underneath Misha’s suit coat and shirt, seeking out warm skin. His cool lips tickle Misha’s neck, making Misha’s whole body shudder. Jensen chuckles again. “You’re not much better.”

“Yeah, well. At least my costume’s waterproof.” His breath is hot in Jensen’s ear, and Jensen purrs like a cat at the feel of it. “If you don’t warm up,” Misha warns, “Your lines are gonna be shit. And then this’ll have all been for nothing.”

Jensen responds with a bland, “Yeah, yeah,” but presses in closer to Misha so that they’re hip to hip, chest to chest. Misha continues to whisper more and more complicated pranks to Jensen, hoping to keep his mind off the bone-chilling cold. When the director finally calls for them to take their marks, Jensen looks sleepy but warm, his lips no longer blue.

  
**\- 04 -**   


Location shoots are a necessary evil for just about every TV series or movie. Supernatural, though, seems to have more than its share. What this means is, a lot of time spent in cars, usually in the early hours of the morning.

If all three stars are needed on location, which happens rarely anymore, Jared always _always_ gets shotgun, to accommodate his insanely long legs. And Jensen and Misha don’t really mind, because the back seat has the tinted windows that block out the early morning sun, and any street lights they pass at night.

To make up for lost sleep, and to pass the time, they often doze in the car. Sure, they might be missing out on some beautiful landscape, but sleep is sleep. A rare commodity.

Morning naps happen, especially if they have to leave for the location at some ungodly hour, but rides home, more often than not at 2 or 3 in the morning, are always filled with quiet snoring. Jared is particularly gleeful on this night (well, morning) when he snorts awake to find Misha plastered to Jensen’s side, his forehead pressed to Jensen’s cheek, his arms wrapped tightly around Jensen’s waist. In return, Jensen’s got an arm wrapped around Misha, his head tipped back against the seat and mouth open, snorting on every exhale.

Jared taps Clif on the arm, motioning at the two in the back, and winks when Clif smirks at him. Then, because he’s a shit and still hasn’t repaid them for the last prank they pulled, he pulls out his iPhone and snaps a picture. He winces, holding his breath when the flash goes off, but Misha just makes a face and smacks his lips, snuggling even closer to Jensen.

Jared watches them for a moment longer before tapping away at his phone, sending the picture to every single person they know.

  
**\- 03 -**   


Part of being a cult hit means doing conventions. And for the most part, they’re fun. Interacting with the fans, telling stories from the set, visiting the different cities. Sure, they have their moments of insanity, but they really are fun overall.

Especially the overseas ones. Nobody can explain why they feel more relaxed in a foreign country, as if none of their shenanigans will ever be reported on back home (oh, if only that were true), but it’s almost like a free-for-all. Jensen crashing Jared’s panel; Jim crashing Mark’s, Richard crashing Misha’s. Fans really do get their money’s worth out of these cons.

So Jensen isn’t completely surprised when, in the middle of a story about Jared’s epic gastronomic pyrotechnics (yes, again), a pair of arms slip underneath his and a face is smooshed against his shoulder. The fans go insane, screaming and jumping up and down, flashblubs blinding him. The arms squeeze tight and Jensen looks to the side out of the corner of his eye, spots dark, messy hair and chuckles. “Collins.”

Misha lifts his head, hooking his chin over Jensen’s shoulder to smile at the crowd. Jensen wraps his hand around one of Misha’s wrists to get him off, but Misha’s stubborn. He’s not moving. Jensen looks to the side again, the crowd still going nuts, and murmurs, “You are so, so dead.” He’s still smiling.

Misha just hums, noses at the hair behind Jensen’s ear. “It’ll be worth it.” He pats Jensen on the chest before letting go. His lips brush against the back of Jensen’s neck, something like a kiss, and then he’s gone, giving a Jared a more manly hug-slash-back slap.

Jared’s face is a little stricken and he places his free hand over his heart. Jensen gives him The Look, but Jared says it anyway. “You love Jensen more than me?!”

Misha nods, solemn. “It’s the freckles.”

  
**\- 02 -**   


Typically, Misha is pretty easy to get along with. Sure, he can be snarky, but he’s hardly ever mean. When he talks to a person, he actually seems genuinely interested in what they have to say, even if they’re talking about something as mundane as their child’s antics from the day before. And he hardly ever gets angry; only when he’s really pushed to the brink. It hardly ever lasts, though.

Sure, he’s no Jared, but there are very few people that are. Plus, the set already has a Jared, it doesn’t need another one.

However, Misha is not perfect (no, no. It’s true). There is one chink in the armor that turns him into the whiniest, meanest pain in the ass in the province: getting sick.

When Misha’s sick, even Jared can’t deal with him, soft-hearted as he is. It falls upon Jensen to kick his ass (figuratively) and wrangle Misha into a car to get him home where he can recuperate. Misha fights him all the way, even as Jensen is shoving him into the house and up the stairs to the bedroom. He waits there until Misha shows signs that he’s going to give in and change into his pajamas, then disappears downstairs to make him a cup of tea with honey and lemon. Again, he has to hover over Misha until he drinks it down with a couple of pills, then Jensen forcefully tucks him into bed.

A quick scan of the refrigerator produces leftovers: Thai, Chinese, and pizza. Jensen plans out a quick list for what he’ll need to make a batch of his mama’s chicken soup, then checks to make sure Misha’s asleep before he leaves for the store.

Misha’s still asleep when he gets back, so it doesn’t take long for Jensen to put the soup together and get it simmering. He settles into Misha’s couch to wait; it isn’t long before he’s asleep himself.

He’s jarred awake an hour later by Misha dropping onto the sofa, kicking his feet up into Jensen’s lap. He looks horrid, his face and cheeks flushed, eyes gummy and puffy. His hair’s even messier than usual, and Jensen can’t help but laugh.

Misha tries to glare, but it misses the mark by a wide margin, so he settles for attitude instead. “I can almost smell the soup. You planning on serving it any time soon?”

Jensen pinches his toe, Misha retaliates with a kick to the thigh. “You couldn’t have gotten some before you sat down?”

“Nope.” Misha’s unapologetic as he settles further into the couch, his feet stretching out to rest on the opposite armrest. He closes his eyes, a smug smile on his face.

Jensen counts to five, then shoves Misha’s feet off his lap. Misha doesn’t even blink, backhands Jensen on the ass when he walks by. “Bad manservant.”

When Jensen returns, he’s holding a tray with a bowl, a tube of soda crackers, and a tall glass of water. Misha makes grabby hands at him, but Jensen just cocks his eyebrow until Misha shimmies into a sitting position. He watches ESPN while Misha slurps at the broth, making little snuffling noises all the while.

“I had no idea you could cook,” Misha says finally, handing the bowl back to Jensen and rattling the spoon, a clear signal that he wants more. Jensen holds Misha’s gaze until he caves and says ‘please.’

Misha eats the soup more sedately this time, manging to breathe in between bites. They’re both quiet until a commercial, and then Jensen says, “My mama used to make that for us all the time when I was sick. It was the only thing that got me through.” Misha studies him, and just as he opens his mouth to speak, a violent sneeze erupts, jolting Misha’s entire body, upending the tray in his lap.

Jensen’s laughing again, pushing Misha’s legs out of the way so he can clean up the mess on the floor. When he gets back from the kitchen, Misha’s head is tipped back, his feet up on the coffee table, and his eyes are squinched shut. Jensen snorts, sits down and rests his arm along the back of the couch. His knuckles brush Misha’s ear, and even the skin there feels feverish. “You should go back to bed.”

Misha scrunches his nose. “Don’t wanna.” He starts to roll his head from side to side. His stubble is rough against Jensen’s fingers.

Jensen flicks a finger at Misha’s earlobe when he says, “How can you be such a baby? It’s just a cold.”

Misha’s head stops rolling, and he looks at Jensen out of the corner of his eye. He stays like that for a long moment. “I just miss my family,” he says finally. “Whenever someone was sick, we’d always snuggle with them. Like all that touching and body heat were a magical cure.” He snorts then, a wet sound, and it starts off a coughing fit.

Jensen makes a soft sound in the back of his throat, slips his hand underneath Misha’s neck, frowning at the heat there, and pulls Misha to him, gently pressing Misha’s head to his thigh. Misha’s pleased sigh rattles as he hooks an arm over Jensen’s knee and wiggles around until he’s comfortable. There’s an afghan on the chair to Jensen’s right, so he grabs it and covers Misha with it, tsking when Misha pulls it up to his nose. “You are absolutely pathetic, I hope you know.” Jensen scoots his butt forward so that he can tip his head back in case he gets sleepy, and his hand comes to rest on Misha’s hip.

“And yet you’re still here,” Misha replies, entirely too smug.

“Don’t push me, Collins.” There’s no heat in the words.

Misha grins up at him. “There’s one other thing my mom used to do.”

“What?” Jensen asks, wary.

“Head rubs.”

Jensen blinks. “What?”

“Head rubs,” Misha repeats. “ _Massage_ , Jensen. Fingers on the scalp, slowly rub—”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“Pret—”

“ _No_.”

Misha sighs—it’s almost a whimper—and he suddenly can’t seem to settle into place.

Jensen lets him suffer for a few minutes then, with a sigh, spears his hand into Misha’s hair and scrapes his nails none too softly against the scalp.

“ _Ow_.”

Jensen uses his grip to force Misha to turn his head a little, and he tips his head forward to meet Misha’s eyes. “Settle. Down.”

“Ok, ok.” There’s a little more squirming and when he finally settles, Jensen’s fingers gentle. Misha purrs at the attention, especially when Jensen presses his thumb behind Misha’s ear and rubs the soft skin there.

When he hears Misha’s breathing even out, as much as it can, Jensen turns the tv off and settles back, closing his eyes. It isn’t long before he’s asleep, too, his fingers still gently stroking through Misha’s hair.

  
**\- 01 -**   


If there is one thing Jensen could change about shooting Supernatural, it would probably be having to film at night so much. He knows it only makes sense; things are much scarier at night, but that sometimes means working all night long, getting in as much as possible, and then being back on set early the next morning to get in any day shooting. Especially if it’s a rare sunny day.

Luckily, his trailer comes with a semi-comfortable bed, and that’s all his mind is set on when Bob calls cut for the day, then has the balls to say, “See you back here in four hours.” Jared grumbles something unintelligible, but obviously meant to smite Bob where he stands, and Jensen grunts in agreement. They’d told Clif to go home a long time ago, knowing it would be easier for them to sleep in their trailers. Jensen doesn’t waste any time stripping off Dean’s shirts on the way there.

He doesn’t bother with the light, just stumbles his way to the back, shoes and jeans left somewhere around the kitchenette. A quick rinse of Listerene, and then he’s fumbling with the sheets, pulling them up to his nose. He’s asleep within a breath, maybe two.

It’s still dark when he wakes up, and he feels like he’s suffocating, trapped in the grip of an octopus. Somebody’s breath is hot on his chest, and their leg is slung over both of his, pinning him to the bed. He’s surprised to find his hand carded through soft, thick hair.

 _Misha_.

Jensen chuckles, settles deeper into his pillow, and dozes off again.

Later, when one of the PAs comes to wake him, Jensen tickles Misha on his side to get his attention. He winces when Misha’s yawn makes his jaw crack, then grins when Misha realizes where he is.

“Huh,” is all Misha says, rolling on his back to rub the sleep from his eyes.

Jensen arches a brow, amused. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

Misha thinks for a moment, then shrugs. “I was here first.”

“You were h--” Jensen thinks on it, then realizes that Misha probably _was_ there first. He’d finished filming earlier than both Jared and Jensen, and Jensen hadn’t bothered with the lights. It should worry him a little that he was so exhausted he didn’t notice another body in his bed, but it doesn’t. “What’s wrong with your bed?” he says finally, reaching up to stretch the stiffness out of his arms.

Misha’s shameless when he says, “Yours was closer.”

Jensen mulls that over, stretches his legs out under the covers, buying himself a little more time. If he doesn’t show up to crafty soon, the PA will be back, and not as friendly. Still.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jensen can see Misha nuzzling into his ( _Jensen’s_ ) pillow. Jensen rolls over on his side again, their bodies curved like parentheses towards each other. The atmosphere feels more intimate than it has a right to, what with dozens of crew members milling about outside. There’s a part of Jensen that wants to fill the space between them with all his secrets, and he thinks maybe Misha, eyebrows raised expectantly, feels it, too.

Instead, the warmth of the sheets and the heat from Misha’s body, mere inches from his own, calls to Jensen’s exhaustion. He feels his eyelids getting heavier and heavier, his body, too. Jensen is sure Misha’s saying something, but he can’t really keep his eyes open. Then there are fingers in his hair, a warm puff of air on his forehead, and he’s dozing once more.

The next time he opens his eyes, Misha-as-Castiel is sitting at the end of his bed, one hand heavy on Jensen’s foot. “C’mon, stud,” Misha teases. “I’ve got coffee.”

  
**\- 00 -**   


The room is dim, the grey daylight mostly filtered out thanks to room darkening blinds. Jensen looks around, trying to figure out what woke him up. There’s nothing he can see or hear, except for the quiet snores coming from the lump of blankets next to him. The riot of inky black spikes peeking out from underneath the covers tells Jensen all he needs to know.

He looks at the clock, glares at the red 9:17AM, and starts the careful shift towards the other body in his bed. He knows Misha’s probably awake, but Jensen doesn’t want to get him riled up just yet, wants to spend a few more minutes enjoying the quiet.

Misha’s blood-warm, his skin surprisingly soft. He’s laying on his side, away from Jensen, so Jensen splays his hand low on Misha’s belly, gentle in case Misha really is still asleep, and pulls him back as he scoots forward. Misha’s snoring gets a little louder, which just proves that he’s awake. And is probably the reason Jensen is, too.

“Why’d you wake me up?” he grumbles into Misha’s ear, thumb sweeping over the skin beneath Misha’s belly button. The muscle beneath quivers.

Placing his hand over Jensen’s, Misha laces their fingers together and replies “I didn’t want to be the only one up.”

The pulse in Misha’s neck is strong, and Jensen can’t resist sucking at it. “Do we have anywhere to be today?” he asks finally, moving on to press kisses and nip lightly at the nape of Misha’s neck.

Misha hums in thought. “Nope.”

“Then would you please,” Jensen pauses to pull Misha against him, snug, and tangles their legs together. “Go the fuck back to sleep.” The heat behind his words is tempered by the wet, open-mouthed kisses he places against the curve where Misha’s neck meets his shoulder.

Misha, not one to argue (much), pulls the sheets tighter around them and settles in.


End file.
